


Benched

by Kokolo



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, High School, Lietro, Locker Room, M/M, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Quakesilver, Sex for Favors, Sports, Theft, and I love it, no matter what universe pietro's always a shit, todd too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22673341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokolo/pseuds/Kokolo
Summary: Home games usually mean easy pickings. This time is a little more complicated.
Relationships: Lance Alvers/Pietro Maximoff
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Benched

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr [here](https://whattheficery.tumblr.com/post/160022939244/fic-benched) on April 26, 2017.
> 
> This one’s an AU where The Brotherhood is (mostly) not a thing. Just to clarify.
> 
> Edited by the ever lovely Mugsandpugs <3

Home games meant a lot of things to a lot of people. Some of it was indifference, but those people didn’t bother showing up, so to everyone else it meant packed parking lots, screaming, cheering, and territorialism. To the home team it meant focus and determination, unwavering pride in school spirit and their teammates. And to one group that feigned indifference as a cover, it meant a smorgasbord of easy-to-grab items and cash from the unattended and unsupervised.

The Brotherhood knew the drill. Though small, they had their parts, and played them well. Todd took to the underside of the stands, fishing wallets out of the patrons that managed to stay in their seats. Fred was the lookout. Lance had, in his infinite wisdom, taken to the locker room by himself. He did this on the basis of him looking the most normal, and having the best record of talking himself out of tricky situations. Nothing too strange about a student taking his filthy gym clothes home mid game. He forgot. Big deal.

What is a little weird is catching him tremor all thirty of the lockers open at once, exposing valuables tucked inside normal clothing or sending them clattering to the floor. And that, of course, is what Lance gets caught doing.

Not by a teacher, or anyone he recognizes for that matter. Just a very pretty, very angry looking home-team player. One who was just benched for the duration of the game, much to his own personal humiliation. He’d fled the bench for some peace and quiet, and perhaps some mischief of his own. Imagine his surprise when he finds his plan knocked out of his hands and taken from him too.

Lance, for all the alarm bells going off, keeps his composure. The newcomer is not small or weak, but he is winded and damp. So what is he gonna do? So Lance drew himself up, bringing himself to his full height and breadth and looking _down_ at the basketball player like it was his fault this happened. He pulls his hands away from the quaked open lockers, scans the personal items up for grabs, and then puts all his focus back to the only witness.

“Gonna tell on me, pretty boy?” Lance huffs, frowning, looking as angry as he can, beginning to scavenge.

Said pretty boy regards him for a moment, leaning against an unopened locker, arms crossed over his chest. “Mm… nah.”

“No?”

“No.” And in the blink of an eye he’s by Lance’s side, slamming the locker shut on his hand. Lance draws back his hand and hisses, shaking the pain out of it, dropping the stolen wallet. “I don’t like any of these people.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“That’s just a little warning no to go in my locker. If you haven’t already.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Which one is yours?”

“Not telling.” He grins. “And I _won’t_ tell… so long as you let me in on the profit.”

“Wow.” Lance says, baffled and amused all at once. “You weren’t kidding about not liking anyone here.”

“After the shit they pulled, no.”

Lance makes some non committal noise and continues to pick through the basketball team’s things, passing over cheap jewelry that won’t fetch much and phones he knows could be traced. Instead he picks up small things to line his pockets- cigarettes, watches, a lighter - things that people will forget they brought anyway. A few dollars from every wallet doesn’t raise as much suspicion as one might think. All while the pretty boy watches on, not saying or doing anything.

“So about splitting the profit…” He says, kicking Lance in the shin as he makes his way from pile to pile.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“That’s a shame. I’d hate to see all that work go to waste…”

“I thought you weren’t going to tell anyway.”

“I changed my mind. So what do you say, gonna cooperate?”

“Problem with that.” Lance says. “I can’t give you any money.”

“Stolen money?”

“Even stolen money.” Lance shrugs. “Sorry buddy.”

“Why not?”

“I need it. More than you guys do. Ask your parents once you win the game for some allowance.”

“Need it for what? Drugs?”

“Food.” Lance meets his gaze and smirks, picking up a cracked ipod off the floor and slipping it into his pocket. “Not that you care.”

Pietro shrugs. The guy is right - he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about his teammates getting robbed, or this poor kid (with an interesting ability as it were) wrecking their shit. His locker is still closed. And upon quick examination, there’s nothing missing. But he did walk in on this. Which puts them both in a very interesting, unique position. And since he can’t entertain himself on the court, he can find an audience here just as easily.

“Well… my silence can be brought.”

“I just told you- money’s off limits.”

“That’s not the only kind of payment there is.”

Lance stares at pretty silver-blond, leaning casually against the yet to be opened lockers on the other side of the aisle. His smirk is still in place, assured as ever. And Lance has to admire that about the guy. He takes a seat on the bench and checks his hand, rubbing the imprint

“You’re funny.” Lance says, flicking through the small wad of cash he’s accumulated. Not enough to live on for too long, but more than nothing.

“I’m not joking.” He insists, shifting weight to his other foot. In the next instant he’s in front of Lance, arms uncrossed, and the crossed again. “You can either give me some of the cash or… a little something else.”

Lance laughs. The new guy smirks, but doesn’t move. He’s being seriously brazen, and brazenly serious. And Lance has to admit he likes that about him a lot. He likes the dominant type. He likes overconfidence to the point of being bullheaded. It doesn’t hurt that he’s pretty. And that teleporting whatever trick he keeps showing off isn’t too shabby either.

“Well… what the hell?” Lance says, reaching out to grasp the player by the waist and slide his hands over the cool mesh of his shorts. “Not a word, right?”

“Maybe a few words. But I can try to keep quiet.”

Lance can’t help the smile, the chuckle. Common sense says he should be throwing fists and leaving asap. But the guy managed to strike every good chord in him - self assured and cocky and prettier than he has any right to be. And it’s been a while… so…

Pietro meanwhile is more than glad to make himself comfortable.

The guy’s hands are big… almost enough to wrap around his waist if he sucked in his breath. And they aren’t shy. He lifts up the jersey and touches skin, lifting it out of the way to press his mouth where his hands had been. Pietro has to admit that it’s good to be treated like this. He should have had to wait until after his victory to get such treatment, but if he has to endure such rightful worship early, then he’ll take that strike for his unworthy team.

“Don’t raise too much of an alarm.” The guy warns, biting into his stomach, “Don’t want to get caught more than I already have.”

“Might make it interesting.”

“So might biting.”

“… fair.”

The guy smiles, white teeth and dark skin contrasting against his stomach and the growing red spot from the bite. He lets the shirt fall and tugs down the elastic of his shorts, drawing him out without much ceremony, but then again he did kind of spring this on him. He seems to be a good sport about it all. Being on his knees suits him. Better than attempting to be intimidating. He doesn’t look too bad, all things considered. Not great - but not bad at all. His technique is passable. All hands at first and then right to business. Nothing he’d go out of his way for, but better than being benched and wallowing in self pity. At least this way he gets the adoration he deserves. Idiots. He’s worth so much more than being benched so someone else can steal his thunder.

“Easy up there.” He pulls off to tell him, frowning, bumping his head into his hand so he can alleviate the pressure. “You _can_ say something.”

“No, sorry. Lost in thought.”

“Well doesn’t that bode well for me?”

“Shut up.” Pietro sighs, eases up on the hair pulling. “Sorry. Forget it. Go on. The game won’t be on for much longer.”

Without skipping a beat, he goes back to work, drawing Pietro into his mouth and sucking him down. Again, not the best, but enough to get him to feel something, and he does know well enough to use his hand and touch him elsewhere. One hand even snuck behind him, up under the loose mesh of his basketball shorts to grope his ass. Pietro can appreciate the attention to detail. Guys alway did give better head than girls.

It’s not much longer after that. Between that roar of the very close crowd, the open and desperate chance they’re gonna get caught any second, and the piled up, pent up anger and adrenaline from the injustice on the court, Pietro comes undone far sooner than he would have liked. But if the guy takes notice, he’s kind enough not to say anything. He tucks him back into his shorts and wipes his mouth off on one of Pietro’s teammate’s shirt. The brazenness convinced him to meet that with his own.

“Your name is Lance, right?”

“Mhm.” Lance doesn’t question how he knows. “And you are?”

“Pietro. Call me Pietro.”

“Pietro. Huh. Strange.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Yeah well…” Lance wipes his sullied mouth again on his hand and dusts off his knees. Pietro glances down and notices he let him kneel on the filthy locker room floor in bare knees. Maybe he wasn’t the only desperate one. “I’ll leave you to the rest of the game or whatever.”

“I’m leaving. Period.” Pietro says pushing off the lockers, and peeling his jersey up over his head. “No need for me to be here anymore.”

“….You are actually a player here, right?” Lance asks, eyeing the back of the jersey. Maximoff - he’s heard that name somewhere before.

“An under appreciated one, but yes.” Lance watches him strip, shamelessly looking him over as he changes clothes, and Pietro keeps talking. “Take a look at the locker at the end, with the stupid red and grey hoodie. He’s got an ipod and just got paid.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Take it all. He’s been having a money problem recently. Someone keep robbing him. Probably because he’s a shithead who likes to steal the spotlight.”

Lance snorts. He doesn’t thank the guy, partially because it feels like accepting money for services, and partially because he’s already forgotten the guy’s name. Nevertheless, he snatches up that money and a few more valuables, picking through some more and more than once watching the guy dress with baffling slowness.

“Well I’m off.” Pietro announces, slamming his locker shut. “Nothing for you to take so take whatever.”

“I think I’m done here too.”

“What, don’t trust me?”

“Nope.”

“Fair.” Pietro says, grinning. “Leave the mess. I’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t believe that, either.”

“Consider it a little extra thanks.” Pietro says, passing him, stroking under his chin.”I’ll clean it. It’ll only take a second. And maybe help myself, since you hit on such a good idea…”

Lance smirks, but he leaves Pietro with the mess without so much as a wave, slipping out of the locker room while the crowd roars. There can’t be that much more time in the game, and Lance had already had enough brushes with getting caught that the meeting spot seems like the better alternative to trying to scrounge up enough cash for another days worth of food.

Todd’s there, waiting for him. The wall moves and Lance realizes Fred is there too, waiting for him. He checks one of the watches. They made pretty good time, all things considered. Lance wonders if they’ll notice his red knees or mouth. It’s a perverse, strange little thought, but he makes sure to look away from them when he talks.

“How much you got man?” Todd asks quietly.

“Not very much straight cash. Stuff to pawn though.” Lance said, lighting up a stolen cigarette with a stolen lighter. “You?”

“Your loss bro. We made a killing.”

“Great. You get to pay for dinner.”

“Nah man. We ate. You know they got free food at these things? All for some school spirit crap. Who fuckin’ knew, right?”

“Yeah. Who knew.”

“You got anything worth keeping?” Fred asks.

“Maybe. Maybe not. A few MP3s, a couple nice watches. Probably worth food for the week.”

“Bummer.”

“Mm.” Lance breathes in and a buzzer sounds off behind them. “We should get moving.”

“I’m gonna miss the end.”

“Who the fuck cares?” Todd says, chipper as he can be with fat pockets and a full stomach. “It’ll be all they can talk about tomorrow or whatever.”

“You were watching, Fred?” Lance asks.

“Yeah. It was a good game.”

“You were supposed to be watching out for me, jerk.”

Lance lets them bicker as they walk out among the first trickle of patrons. He wants to ask whether or not Fred saw silver haired showboater. Saw what happened to him, what made him so mad and drove him to aiding petty theft. He wonders if he’s any good at all, if he was just pitching a fit. But he can ask later, when leaving is less important. Won’t stop Lance from scanning the crowd though, because how hard can spotting a tall silver-haired punk be?

Terribly easy, it turns out, and of he goes into the parking lot, aloof and not at all upset like he seemed to be when Lance saw him first. Pietro. He remembers it now. He’ll forget again, probably. No offense to him, of course. Pietro spots him in turn, and gives a little wave.

“Who’re you lookin’ at yo?” Todd asks, climbing into the passenger seat of the old jeep. “Cops?”

“Nah. Just someone I think I know.”

“Yeah? Anyone good?”

“Yeah.” Lance says, raising his hand to wave back. “Might be worth keeping an eye on.”


End file.
